Five Times Lestrade Was Turned Down, and One Time
by xXLadyLovelaceXx
Summary: Title basically says it all. Lestrade/multiple others.


**I.**

Jane was the prettiest girl Gabriel Lestrade had ever seen. He'd just started out as a police constable last month, and his new patrol took him past her stall. He asked her every day if she was all right, too terrified to do anything other than that. This way, he was just doing his duty. After three months of making sure the girl was all right, Lestrade was informed that he would be changing routes next week. It took him a further two days to pluck up the courage to ask if she'd do him the very great honour of accompanying him to dinner.

She was nice about saying no. Graceful to the last, looked genuinely sorry. Lestrade was glad he'd waited, since he only had to be awkward for five days now. It was all right, in the long run, really.

**II.**

He met Tobias Gregson the day he was made inspector. The other man was clever and witty and, if he was in an honest mood, devastatingly attractive. Not that he was supposed to think things like that, of course, but a man couldn't help what he liked. They became fast friends, in the early days. Two of the Yard's best and brightest, nigh on inseparable.

After work drinks became a usual thing for them. Lestrade was always careful not to have more than two, in case he got careless about expressing his admiration. Until one night, when Gregson invited him back to his rooms, so they could talk in peace and quiet. The young inspector was certain, certain that this was it. That the looks he'd hoped were more than just friendly really did mean something.

Nervousness, though, led to more alcohol than he would usually allow himself. He sat too close, though he wasn't sure that was entirely his doing. But he could feel Gregson's heat beside him, and they were talking and laughing, and he was _so close_. He would berate himself for it later, but at the time, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to lean forward and press his lips to the other man's. For a split second, the moment was almost perfect, but then Gregson was pushing him back, pushing him _away_ and looking at him like he'd just murdered someone in front of him.

"I...you...I'm not..." Gregson spluttered for a moment and then knocked back the rest of his brandy before speaking again. "I'm...look, I'm sorry. But even if I was," he flailed for the right words, "that way inclined, it's _illegal_. You and I are officers of the law!"

Lestrade had thought about that. He was a man of justice, he decided, not of the law. Laws that prevented things for the sake of preventing them weren't worth holding up. He looked away after a moment. "Is that the only reason?"

"Yes." Gregson answered honestly, "yes, it is. I'm sorry, Lestrade."

Lestrade got up and left without another word. He and Gregson had never been quite the same, after that.

**III.**

There was no question in Lestrade's mind that the tall, strange man in front of him was something special. He would be loathe to admit this to him, of course, but the thought was still there. Sherlock Holmes had an odd magnetism about him. The way his eyes saw right through you, perhaps, or the way he slunk about like a panther who'd learned to walk, all sleek lines and quiet grace. Lestrade was certain that the consulting detective saw the implied question in his eyes. Sure he'd seen it and was ignoring it.

Or perhaps he wasn't ignoring it. Every now and again, even when Holmes was tearing him apart for something or other that he'd missed, the man would smile at him, grey eyes sparkling. There were moments, Lestrade thought, when they did better than get along.

When Holmes moved into his new rooms at Baker Street, he took on a much lighter mood, for a time. For two weeks, Lestrade found as many excuses as he could to visit Holmes, bringing him little problems that he solved in minutes just to enjoy his company for a few moments while he was happy. Sixteen days into these visits, Lestrade realised he was staring by the look Holmes gave him. As always, sharp eyes saw right through him.

"No, inspector. Not now. If you'd asked me a month ago, the answer would have been different. I apologise."

He shouldn't have been surprised, having known Sherlock Holmes as long as he did. When he met Dr. Watson two weeks later, saw the way Holmes looked at him, he was fairly sure he wasn't the only one who couldn't have what he wanted. He didn't blame the detective at all, really.

**IV.**

Miss Edna Harker was in a bad state when Lestrade met her. Her mother had just murdered her father, and was being taken away after a full confession, in front of her daughter. The poor girl had every right to be in tears, and the inspector truly felt for her. She was also very, very pretty.

Lestrade found himself dropping in to check up on her. Updating her on the progress of the case, escorting her to visit her mother when she was ready. Just making sure she was all right, really. That was, until he decided to ask her to marry him.

"Oh, Inspector, that really is terribly sweet of you," she smiled sweetly as she replied, "but I'm afraid I'm waiting for an offer from another gentleman. I find myself quite taken with him. I hate to do this to one who has been so kind to me, but I would not make you happy," she took his hand, "there is someone else out there, for you."

Lestrade nodded, and told her it was fine, just a thought, nothing to worry about. He smiled, and finished his tea, and ran away as quickly as he could as soon as it was polite.

**V.**

He ran, oddly enough, straight into the young man who worked under him. Constable Clarke was an easy to get along with man, always ready with a smile and a pat on the back. He provided a sympathetic ear over a quiet pint in a deserted pub. He was a great comfort, soothing Lestrade's hurt like he was made to do it – this was why Lestrade sent him in to deal with difficult sorts, the inspector realised. Halfway through his fourth pint, Lestrade leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to the constable's cheek. The gasp he got in response, he realised with a sinking feeling, was not the positive sort. He pulled back quickly to see the poor young constable wide-eyed.

"Sir," he began, and then paused awkwardly, "I...I have a wife, sir. I'm sorry." He patted Lestrade's shoulder comfortingly. "I know you're hurting right now, and I'd like to help, but not like that. It wouldn't help, anyway. Come to dinner at mine tonight. The wife would love to meet you."

Lestrade nodded, and happily followed along to dinner. Clarky was right; it was more help than he would ever have thought. The other man's wife was a lovely woman. It was so, so easy to forget the afternoon, and the constable never held it against him. It was his most successful rejection ever.

**I.**

Watson dealt very poorly with Holmes' demise at Reichenbach. It was a pity to see, the doctor had always been a wonderfully affable man, and now he stood all in black looking solemn enough for all of London. It had been two months.

They were both very, very drunk. Watson was telling stories fondly about their mutual friend as if he'd walk in to the room at any moment. Lestrade, having never learned his lesson, leaned over and kissed the doctor softly. He made a muffled sound of surprise when Watson grabbed his head and kissed back enthusiastically. Both men broke away panting, wild looks in their eyes.

"You're not him." Watson stated firmly, though he didn't seem convinced.

"I know. I know I'm not. I never will be." Lestrade tensed, preparing himself to leave in a hurry. There was a long pause before Watson spoke up again.

"Let me pretend? Just for an hour or so?"

Lestrade looked up, saw unshed tears in the doctor's eyes, and nodded firmly. "Yes. Yes, I'll let you pretend." He leaned in again and kissed Watson sweetly and slowly, before running his hand down the other man's cheek and smiling softly. "I'll let you have anything you want, _my dear Watson_." 


End file.
